On Conducting Ghosts
by Ahmerst
Summary: America and England debate séances and Halloween costumes. UK/US.


America flinched beneath England's hands. England lifted his embroidery hoop, peering beneath to see America's frowning face looking up at him, his head currently settled in England's lap.

"I'm not going to hurt you," England said. "The likelihood of the undead walking the Earth is greater than the chance of me nailing you with a sewing needle." He waved a sliver of a needle about to illustrate his point.

"The chances of both of those things, I think, are pretty dang likely." America folded his hands over his midsection and turned his attention back towards the television.

England rolled his eyes and set his needlework aside. Ever since he had begun, America had been squirming and starting, firmly set in the belief that sooner than later England would thread right through one of his eyes. The needlework could wait, if only to stop America from moving about so much.

America slowly rotated, curling onto his side. His lopsided glasses reflected the flashing images of the TV, and England found himself trying to watch the show using America's spectacles. It was fruitless, he knew, but he'd much rather stare at America than whatever terrible drivel he happened to be watching.

England's hands grew bored from lack of action to perform. They carefully wound their way into America's wheat-colored locks, stroking, preening, twisting gently. Delicate fingers traced over the shell of America's ear and along his jawline before they began to trail along the smooth skin of his neck.

"What the heck are you up to?" America's shoulders shrugged in quick little bursts. "That tickles."

"Just thinking," England responded. Not that he really was. His thoughts were blurred, the only thing on his mind how beautiful America looked while resting in the low-lit room, how well his head fit in England's lap.

"_Me too_," America hissed under his breath, "I mean, I bet it's not the ghost of their Grandma, but something way more evil."

England paused. He hadn't the faintest what America was talking about. "What's this about ghosts?" England looked to the TV, the screen showing a dimly lit room where several people were gathered about a table, holding hands and chanting. "Bloody Hell, not this pig slop."

"It's interesting," America replied, slightly defiant.

England refused to argue over such petty things, but silently ticked off several reasons as to why, of all shows, ghost shows were the worst. The footage was always grainy and boring, recorded voices were purely static with subtitles added in to make it appear as if words had been spoken. The hosts psyched each other out constantly, pushing for more and more scares.

At the same time, England resigned himself to the onslaught of this show and many other paranormal-themed ones that would be taking over the telly. The UK was currently nestled deep into the last days of October, and many had All Hallows Eve on the mind, leaving little room for much else.

England had still not picked a costume, nor had America. With only goodwill in mind, England had very generously offered an authentic, and well preserved, British infantry uniform that dated back to the late 18th century. When America had seen it, he went a bit green around the gills. His sole comment was that it was very red, and red really wasn't his color. It was a shame, because England knew it would have fit him _perfectly_.

America hadn't asked for any costume suggestions after that. The subject of space cowboys seemed to come up several times throughout the shortening days, but England ignored them. There was no such thing, and he would not tolerate America dressing as something that _did not exist_. America had countered that lots of people dressed up as wizards and faeries.

England's memory of the conversation following that comment was lacking, but he distinctly remembered the smell of fire and brimstone, and what sounded like a lot of ape-hooting. After that the words 'space' and 'cowboy' dropped off the radar, and America became much more agreeable. England started to wonder if it wouldn't be such a bad idea to offer him the uniform option again.

America snapped up, scrambling off the couch in a rush. A yelp trailed after him. He tumbled inelegantly to the floor, limbs a flailing mess, striking out momentarily and connecting with England's shin. England winced and pulled his legs up to his chest, glaring down at America as he began to still, face a pale mask.

"Mind explaining yourself?" England asked, tone dripping with venom.

"A-aerobics," America stammered out, donning an apologetic look as he climbed back onto the couch.

"I'm _sure_," England intoned sarcastically, rubbing his shin before letting his legs dangle off the couch again.

"Look, I'm sorry. Something jumped during the show and I had to practice my reflexes. It's not like I was trying to tap your leg─"

"_Maul_," England interrupted. "You took a fine leg, mine, and socked it. I could have you in jail for that sort of behavior, but because I am mind-blowingly _benevolent_, I won't."

"Don't you think you're overreacting a bit?"

"You think that's overreacting? I'll show you what it means to overreact," England hissed, grabbing his embroidery needle. He clutched America by his jaw, causing his cheeks to bunch and lips to purse. "If you don't stop talking and go back to watching your sorry little show, I will personally _stitch your mouth shut_."

America sat there with his unintentionally goofy face, uttering not the slightest of noises. England released him and huffed, tossing the needle to the floor. He crossed his arms and legs, shielding himself from America's touch. The television lent itself as a good excuse to ignore the other presence on the couch.

The people on the TV were all up in a tizzy, running from their home, hands clapped to their faces in horrified expressions. One of them was screaming about a séance gone wrong, another of feeling a cold spot in the room. England sneered.

"This is complete cack." Seeing people who didn't understand spirits try to contact them always put a bee in England's bonnet. They always went about it wrong in one way or another, and in the end would always fall back on acting as if they had made contact.

America made a noise that signified a relenting agreement. His body shifted closer to England as the show continued on, though England never actually _felt_ him moving. Soon there was a curious hand moving along his crossed arms, pulling and prodding, trying to find one of England's hands in the darkness.

England envisioned giving America's hand a quick smack. How he would reel back with a startled cry and make a questionable excuse for his action. After that he would return to watching his show, but it would only be a matter of time before the creeping hand came back for a second shot. It was better to let the hand have its way.

England unfolded his arms and snatched America's traveling hand. America pretended as if nothing had happened, but England sensed the content slouch that overtook his body. England decided he would act none the wiser as well, instead continuing to gaze on.

He hated to admit it, but the show was becoming the slightest bit interesting. There were no silly electric scanners, no buffoons frolicking about in graveyards and turning to terrified children the instant a deer moved in the bushes. Instead it was more like an hour long reenactment, with footage that did not constantly shake and bounce. A bit like a proper TV show.

The actors had found themselves grouped around the table again, different artifacts from their religious beliefs. They sat in a circle, the one wearing the most flamboyant garb calling out for spirits to use her body as a means of communications. Her eyes rolled into the back of her head, shoulders shaking violently. A deep and unnatural voice emerged from her throat.

It claimed to be the home owner's Grandmother.

England erupted into a bout of laughing that soon turned to a hacking cough. Grandmothers didn't sound like snakes given speech. And to think that one's Grandmother would so conveniently pop in to let everyone know the afterlife was one long gravy train.

America grumbled under his breath and hit the mute button, deciding to draw invisible designs on England's hand until his laughter died away. England forced himself to laugh longer, enjoying America's frustrated touch. When he allowed his mirth to taper off, America spoke up.

"What's so funny?"

"That's the most ridiculous séance I have seen in all my long years."

"Well, since you're so, uh, _paranormally inclined_─"

"Don't call me that. I can't stand for political correctness in private."

America tried again, "Since you're the go-to guy on ghosts and stuff, have you ever held a séance?"

"Yes," England replied truthfully. "I have, and I don't need a group of people to do it either. Actually, that's worse. Very distracting."

"Hypothetically speaking, could you hold one now?"

"If I wanted to, but I don't."

"Pfft, sure. And I can make things levitate any time I want, but I don't feel like it at the moment."

"Are you calling me a liar?" England pulled his hand away from America's, his face dark with disdain.

"You're the one that brought the word up."

"Fine. If it'll shut you up I'll channel someone." Leave it to America to believe in other worldly matters when it suited him best.

"Okay!" America cried excitedly. "Should I stay where I am? Is there anything I can get you?"

"Stop talking and I'll have everything I need."

America nodded silently and smoothed his shirt and his pants, trying to make himself more presentable for an entity he could not see. England relaxed his body, suppressed an upward twitch of his lips, and lolled his head back. His eyelids fluttered quickly, hands slipping to rest in his lap. England's breath became ragged and haunted.

"_You,_" England moaned, body shuddering.

"Me?" America's voice shook like a leaf.

"_Yes, you_."

Even with his eyes closed, England knew America must be looking about, unable to believe the spirit was directly addressing him.

"Um, is there anything I can help you with?" America pandered.

"_I saw you,_" England rasped. "_You thought no one would, but I saw you clear as day, and you were─ you were─_"

"What was I doing?" America's voice had become a small squeak.

England's eyes snapped open, and he turned to face America with a hollowed expression. "_I saw you kissing bums last night._"

"Son of a_ bitch_," America laughed, punching the couch. England knew he was too relieved to be truly angry.

"Had enough yet?" England smiled devilishly, enjoying how well he had deceived America from the start.

"As if. Do another one, but channel someone for real this time. Don't yank my chain."

"If you insist." England shrugged, closing his eyes again.

He waited longer than he had the first time to begin shifting about, knowing it would not be as easy to fool America this time. England groaned softly, teeth chattering from a chill that did not exist, body trembling, quivering. His head jerked spastically to the side, his neck making an unexpected popping sound. It was a nice touch.

"England? Are you okay?" America cautiously touched England's shoulder.

"_Hm, yes? Good day, kind sir,_" England attempted in the most posh and outdated accent he could manage.

"Oh, hello!" America answered back.

"_And how might you be on this fair evening_?"

"Lovely, thank you very much. How about you?"

"_Positively spiffing._" England was having the damndest time trying not to laugh again. "_But I must impose upon you, for I have quite the request._"

"Impose away, I guess." America sounded enthralled, but there was a slight tinge of anxiousness in his tone.

"_You see, this kind chap here. The one who is being so kind as to allow me to use his body as a vessel─_"

"His name is England," America added helpfully.

"_Right, yes. I must ask you not to be so hard on him, it's rather unsporting_."

"Wait, what?"

"_He's ever such a good man, you should treat him much more kindly. I recommend you give him endless affections, starting with a good snogging. Or better yet, you could give him a─_"

"England!" America cried, "Are you trying to channel ghosts as foreplay?"

England opened his eyes, lips sealed to stop him from chortling. He vehemently shook his head 'no'.

"This is hogwash, you can't hold a séance worth beans. I should have known better than to ask." America hung his head, dejected by England's teasing.

"Yes, you _should_ have known better. But when has that ever stopped you? And just because I'm not willing to bring anyone out for your entertainment doesn't mean I can't."

"Then why won't you?"

England took a moment to decide how truthful he should be with America. Of course, he strove to be an honest man, but America was someone you needed to handle carefully. He could take the explanation badly if it weren't properly worded. England figured it was best to brutally honest anyway, since America thought himself a grown man.

"The people─ the _things_ you contact on the other side are nothing like that your little ghost shows portray them as. Think about it for a moment. If you were caught in a limbo between existences, do you think you'd be all that pleased?"

"Okay, I can see your point there, but what about spirits only dropping by for a quick chat, like the Grandma?" America motioned towards the television.

"After you die and move on, they don't give you a day pass to go visit your loved ones." Or at least they wouldn't willingly give you a pass.

America thought England's argument over and found no flaws. "What if the loved one didn't move on, and they're stuck haunting their homes or wherever? Can't _they_ pop in to say hello?"

"That brings us back to my original point. They're trapped here. For years and years, always because of horrifying events of some sort or another. What makes you think they would be enjoyable to talk to? And even if the occasional odd spirit that shows up isn't stuck here, where do you think they'll be from?"

"Uh, upstairs?"

"Considering 'upstairs' is supposed to be the cat's whiskers, I doubt it."

"So the only spirits around are those who had their lives end in a terrible fashion, or folks from downstairs clawing their way up?"

"Yes."

"I do not like that prospect," America said matter of factly.

"Now, think of how_ fun_ it must be for me to have to interact with those things? I don't need to hear their whinging about endless torment and licking flames, of putrid, _burning_ flesh and─"

"Alright already, I get it! Séances aren't all they're cracked up to be. Sorry I ever asked."

"Well now you know," England sniffed. "But you know," he added "I think that posh bloke had the right idea."

"About being nicer to you? I'm always nice to you. Heck, when am I never _not_ nice to you?"

"He's right about that, but also about giving me a kiss or two. He had some good suggestions. It's a shame you cut him off before he could tell you more."

"I'm pretty sure I know _exactly_ what he was going to suggest," America said.

"Then what's the wait for? Hop to it."

"Hm, I suppose I do owe you for giving me such an in-depth explanation when it comes to séances."

America leaned over, closing the distance between him. His hands kneaded England's thighs playfully as his lips brushed against England's, soft and tantalizing. England returned America's kiss, biting roughly at America's lip before lovingly running his tongue along it. He was still in a bit of a rowdy mood.

England's hands slid beneath America's shirt, grasping his flesh in his hands. His lips continued to move with America's, tasting and testing, drinking in America's soft giggles and hoarse moans for more. England pulled their bodies together, reveling in the warmth.

America began to thrash about in England's hold, hands shoving at England's chest. England drew back, thinking he had accidently bitten America too hard. America clamored about like a wild animal, hands reaching for the remote. England wished he could sock him upside the head.

"You have _got_ to be kidding me," America exclaimed breathlessly, pointing the remote at the TV as if it were a weapon. The audio came flooding back.

England turned to look at the screen, incensed that whatever it was had stolen America's interest away. He wouldn't allow that to carry on for long. Images that meant nothing played out before his eyes. It was some kind of advertisement. Explosions occurred, announcers shouted, spaceships came into view, and then─

Cowboys.

From space.

_Goddamn space cowboys._

England leapt at the TV, shielding it from America's vision as he feverishly pressed every button he could to turn the sound off, to change the channel, to make it go away. America was quickly at his back, pulling him away from the TV.

"They're _real_," America gasped, clearly in awe. "I can be one!"

"No, it's a lie! That commercial must be foreign, they must have mistranslated it somehow, those figures are most assuredly not space cowboys. They're probably animal activists, or very small giants that are fashionably challenged." The explanation made sense in England's head.

America bolted towards the door, paying no heed to England's words. He shoved his feet into worn sneakers, quickly looping the laces to form a bunny-eared knot. He stood with a smile and shot England a wink.

"Want anything while I'm out?" He asked.

"How can you get me anything," England trailed his words, diverting America's attention momentarily so that he could grab the car keys from its resting place. "If you can't go anywhere?"

"Give me those." America tried to pry the keys from England's grip.

"Over my dead body," England hissed back, turning away. "Even if you get them, you'll drive like the maniac you are."

"I've been alive long enough to know how to drive on the wrong side of the road," America sniffed.

"Even if you can drive properly, you won't know where to go."

"I already know where I'm going, the costume shop. Now hand over the keys or I'll start taking hostages."

"But you don't know where any costume shops are." England turned to face America, drawing himself up to full height and then some.

"That might be true, but, uh... You know what? That could prove to be a bit of a problem," America mumbled, rubbing his chin thoughtfully.

"Exactly, so why don't I drive you to the store? I promise I won't get lost."

Full of loving trust, America nodded his head in agreement and opened the door. "After you."

England quickly toed on his loafers, passing America with a quick peck on the cheek in thanks, thoughts full of possibilities. The two of them were soon buckled in tight, England slowly cruising down the narrow lane that led away from his house. His fingers fluttered about nervously, eyes darting to America's form to see if he was suspicious. America blithely smiled on.

England smiled to himself at the idea of America donning the uniform England had kept for him after all this time, but his happiness quickly melted at the mental image of a space cowboy. Being the responsible adult, England firmly decided he would be the one responsible for deciding on America's costume, lest the latter manage to find himself in assless cowboy chaps or something equally bizarre.

Assured that he was doing the right thing, England gave America one last glance before slowly beginning to putter away into the night, traveling in the opposite direction of the costume shop.

_A/N:_

_-I can't write ending lines/paragraphs worth a dang. Does anyone know of some good advice or particularly helpful articles?_

_- I think England totally would have had a uniform made for America back in the late 1700's with the belief that America would simply smarten up and see which side was the boss side. I can also see him hanging onto that uniform because gosh dangit he will make America wear it somehow._

_-The "kissing bums last night" bit is a line from a_ _radio show called Act Your Age. It strikes me as one of those lines in the English language which approach an art form, as they can instantly dissolve a serious situation._


End file.
